


Strangers When We Meet

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sateda never fell.  (Entry for Satedan Grabass exchange over on LJ)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers When We Meet

  
"Afternoon, Commander."

Ronon glances up from the most recent munitions inventory to find Tyre standing in the doorway with a smug grin on his face.

"Taskmaster, back already?" he shoves another report onto the pile on his desk as he waves him to sits down. "How many men survived the training operation?"

"Came through the ring just now, and your men are fine, but that's not why I'm here. Three strangers came through the gate shortly after I arrived, two men and a woman. Armed, but they're claiming an interest in diplomacy." Tyre grins, then, and finally gets to the point. "Their appearances match descriptions of the people who settled the city of the Ancestors."

Ronon doesn't hide his surprise- he couldn't, if he tried, not with Tyre- but he doesn't voice it, either. "Interesting. Where are they now, with the Council?"

Tyre shakes his head. "Actually, they're waiting in the hallway, probably wilting underneath the glare of your guards. And since we are now _speaking_ of your guards…"

In response, Ronon shoots up four fingers. _Just through the ring now, and already he's heard about it._ "Five days ago. Revas tried to slit my throat while I slept."

Eyebrows raised, Tyre begins, serious now. "He was posted to you for over a _year_. You're telling me that all this time… Wraithworshipper or ally of Kell?"

"He died too soon for me to ask."

Tyre shakes his head concernedly as he stands. "I leave Sateda for ten days, and see what happens?" He's joking, but he's watching Ronon move his chair back from the desk and is clearly looking for signs of injury beyond the old war wounds. "Right. Well. Not that I think the _rest_ of your personal security staff is a threat, of course, but perhaps we should bring in our guests before a diplomatic incident arises, yes?"

\---

There's a market square up the block, vendors shouting over the crowds to advertise their wares, but there are storefronts lining the streets, as well. Military squads are running drills back in the yards by the gate, and there are smokestacks in the distance, signs of actual industry. People are everywhere, bustling along the streets in such a noisy roar that if it weren't for the glaring difference in clothing, they might as well have been in any Earth city.

And _cars_ , small trucks, which McKay points out excitedly, carting food, rolls of cloth, heavy looking equipment and the occasional giggling child in the open bed. And it's not that Teyla isn't impressed, but none of this can be making her the least bit homesick. Not that John is. It's just familiar, is all.

No one seems bothered by the handful of strangers meandering through their city, but perhaps it was due to the presence of their guide, Tyre, who they'd met in the yard in front of the stargate.

Tyre is wiry and dark haired and has clearly been living rough, for a short time at least, but it's clear that he's got the respect of all the soldiers and guards they come across as they make their way towards the center of town for an audience with the Satedan military commander.

This being the case, John should probably stop focusing on the fact that he'd been missing the sounds of traffic, and see about gaining a little more intel.

"Why didn't your guards ask for our weapons when we came through the gate?"

"You never know when the wraith will come," Tyre glances over his shoulder. Though I should inform you, it is considered quite rude to use them on another human."

"The wraith have come recently?" Teyla had also noticed the occasional crumbled walls and odd burn marks here and there.

Tyre slowed to let a car pass, and turned to face them, smirking. "We have only recently ended a war among our own people, though we are at peace, now. As such, and to address the previous question, I would take care when in the presence of the Commander. He's become quite accustomed to assassination attempts, and his guards even more so."

"Good to know," John hurries to agree, sensing McKay winding up for another rant.

\---

If the streets outside were familiar, the inside of the building is overwhelming. Apparently, office design is more universal than he'd thought. While the stylistic details are different- arched doorways, or the militaristic themes of the artwork, the layout of the building are instantly recognizable. Offices and conference rooms line the wide hallway, hell, they're even passing _receptionists_.

Many are in military uniforms, though others are dressed like Athosians who owned irons. What stands out, though, are the women dressed in dark fitted tunics over matching slacks, the only variation between them found in the cuffs and collar. Whether it's meant to indicate rank or clan designations, or just individual style, John isn't sure, but the deference the passerby display has him leaning towards the former.

Eventually, they arrive at a door, and Tyre tells them to wait while he goes inside, and John tries not to guess what to expect.

 _Right_.

The carpet is tightly knotted. Angular stripes in brown and red.

 _Focus_.

In a few minutes, he has a job to do.

\---

The first man through the door is the leader, it's obvious in the way he scans the room quickly, taking everything in and being a little surprised, perhaps, at what he finds. It's only a flash, however, near recognition, and then it's gone the moment he's meeting Ronon's eye. The second one is distracted, or maybe expecting to be executed on the spot. What they're doing letting the man carry a weapon, Ronon can only imagine. The third is a woman, radiating blank serenity. She wears similar clothes and carries a similar gun, but she does both differently.

Tyre steps forward from his post by the door. "Commander Ronon Dex, these are Teyla Emmagen, Doctor Rodney McKay, and Major John Shepherd."

"Shepherd?" Ronon nearly smirks, but catches himself before any offence can be made. The man seems to understand, however, and relaxes, a little bit, his hand falling a little further away from his gun.

"Call me John," he grins, obviously aware that his surname is a weak name for a soldier. His world, evidently, is not one of those whose people are born into their position, though the man's casual demeanor and lack of ceremony have already advertised the fact. "It's nice to meet you."

\---

"Rumor has it that you're from the City of the Ancestors," The commander waves them into chairs in front of his desk, but doesn't sit himself.

"We're originally from a planet a long way out. Came out exploring, found the city abandoned, and set up base there, a little over a year ago."

The commander frowns, like he knows John's holding out on him. "Thought they were just stories, people finding the city. Traders telling tales."

"Well, they're true. We're looking for allies against the wraith, and. We're also looking for a friend of ours. He's sick, a little insane, and we'd like to get him back before he does something stupid or has something stupid done to him."

Ronon scowls in confusion. "What's his story?"

John slides one of the pictures Beckett managed to snap of Ford before he escaped from the infirmary and tells him the tale, which is accepted with a few wary glances in Tyre's direction.

"Why are you really here?" Ronon- because _Commander_ isn't working so well in John's head, not with the dreads, and _Dex_ had been killed in Afghanistan- asks irritably, and John stumbles. He hadn't realized he'd been that transparent, and he looks to Teyla to bail him out. It's McKay, though, who speaks up.

"Our databases show that you've got an Ancient outpost here, that wasn't completed before they fled."

"And if that's the case," John jumps in, before McKay can get to mentioning the ZPMs, "Then we might be able to help you get them up and running."

"I know of the facilities you're talking about," Ronon begins, wary, but his interest is piqued, "but most of us believe them to be useless."

"That's okay," John needs to reassure him. He's on the hook, but he's not buying it. "McKay is seven kinds of genius when it comes to that sort of thing," _You could back me up any time here, Rodney._ "If you could show him what you've got, he'd be able to make it work."

Ronon grimaces, and it's then that John realizes that he's not talking to some punked out college student, that this guy means business. "A few problems, there." Fixing John with a hard look, he enumerates them, ticking them off on his fingers. "I don't know you, and don't trust you, your intentions, or your capabilities."

"That is understandable and wise," Teyla finally speaks, glancing briefly at the guards. "But I assure you, we mean you or your people no harm."

Ronon nods as he stands, but it's because he's been looking at what appears to be a clock hanging on the wall. Infuriatingly enough, as close as they've come, their audience seems to be over.

"I'll have this posted in the square and alert the security squads," Ronon waves Ford's picture. "As to the rest, I will confer with the Council."

Tyre opens the door, and one of the guards goes into the hallway while the other waits for them to leave. John glances back over his shoulder to see Ronon limping, a bit, around the edge of his desk, and wonders if it was war, or another form of attack that caused it.

\---

Dinner is a stilted, uncomfortable affair, much as he'd expected. It usually is, when dining with a member of the council- especially to admit to holding meetings with outsiders that he has no business holding. The fact that Councilor Ty Dex is his mother does nothing to ease the strain.

"We _need_ allies," Ronon leans across the table.

"We need more than the promises of three _strangers_ ," Ty arches her brow in response. She's tired, this much has been obvious since she sat down, rubbing at her temple and complaining of the Hoffan delegation she'd been in talks with all day.

"They understand Ancestral technology-"

"Yes. _If_ it's true. But as you say, you have only the word of people who have come _begging_. If their understanding is so great, then why do they need us?"

Ronon sighs. It isn't as if she doesn't understand the value of such an alliance. "Compared to most of our allies, they have knowledge that we can use. Even if they can't get it operational, it would move us ahead by years "

"So you would go to them on your knees? Ask them for help?"

 _They're good people._ "It would be an exchange. We wouldn't have to go to them barehanded. _They_ came to _us_." And he knows that there's something they want, beyond what they told him earlier, but for now, it's best left to the women of the council.

"And then what?" Ty asks, her tone once again critical. "It's a dream, Ronon, nothing more. The stories, even if they are true, are thousands of years old. Legend. Not the sort of thing the commander of hundreds should be wasting his time chasing. Especially not one who has the stain of treason about him."

"I am _no_ traitor," Ronon growls, itching to go for his knife and nearly knocking over his stew in the process. She's merely making a point, he knows it, but the accusation stings, coming from his own mother's mouth, even more than it ever had during the inquiry.

"Of course not," she says, setting her cup aside. "But you must see reason, here. This fanciful idea, combined with the fact that you've yet to do your duty-"

"I've done nothing _but_ my duty to Sateda."

"You've taken more Satedan lives than you've replaced, and it will soon catch up to you. My name cannot carry you past it." This is cruel, even for her.

"Melena-" Ronon chokes his response.

"Died seven _years_ ago. Do not sully her memory by using it as the cause of another war." Her mouth is a thin line, her stare hard as she stands. "We've only just survived the last one."

And there are eyes here, watching. He has to rein himself in. This is just a meeting with one of the Council, nothing more. She's not his mother right now. She isn't, most days.

But she pauses next to him, her hand almost coming out to touch. When he looks up, though, her eyes have softened. She's looking at him like she used to, when he was young, before he'd even left for the barracks.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I still worry, you know. Not all enemies are as straightforward as an assassin, nor are they so easily dealt with."

Ronon coughs. He hadn't known she'd heard about that. "So what do you think?"

"I'll present it to the council. If you say there is merit to it, there probably is, and you already know that Councilor Yora will jump at the chance to research the ruins."

"Thank you," he says, careful not to add _Councilor_ or _Mother_ , because either one of them could be wrong, and there's more that he wants to say, but he honestly doesn't know who he'd be saying it to, and she's left him, now, anyway, staring at the remnants of his stew, not knowing what to think.

\---

McKay's tapping incessantly on his computer, but Teyla is alert, prepared for the debriefing the way John thinks he probably should be.

"They're keeping an eye out for Ford, and considering letting us have access to the outpost," John says, as the conference room doors close behind Elizabeth. "We should be hearing from them tomorrow morning."

"Did you ask about the ZPMs?"

"Not yet. I figure we'll bring it up once we find out what they have."

"Good idea," Elizabeth smiles as she sits down. "So. Tell me about them."

McKay jumps in first. "Apart from the obvious and unused Ancient technology, I'd place them at Earth, circa 1930. They've got stores and cars and office buildings."

"And newspapers," John adds, because it seems like the sort of thing Elizabeth might be interested in.

"Do they have ships?"

"Didn't see any," John shrugs, "but we were only there for a little while. It wouldn't surprise me, though."

Elizabeth is looking to McKay to confirm, but McKay's more interested in whatever's happening on his computer. His head shoots up when he notices the room's gone quiet.

"Huh? Yes. I agree," he offers. "They've got no nukes, either."

"Well, that _is_ refreshing," Elizabeth nods. "So what are the people like?"

"We talked to their military commander, he's the one who's taking it to the council. Sounds like they just finished some sort of civil war not too long ago." John doesn't mention the assassination attempts. "Commander's a guy named Ronon Dex. He, ah."

"Looks like a grunge rock surfer dude," McKay smirks, and Elizabeth's eyebrows rise.

"Yeah," John can't figure a way around it. "And he seems pretty young to be a commander."

"We have yet to ascertain how their ranking system works," Teyla reminds him. "Or even their political structure. It may be less surprising than you think, once we get to know them."

"Right, well." John nods, and starts to describe the insanity that is Sateda.

\---

"The Council's agreed to your proposition, but they've requested that you send someone to advise us on our research into Ancestor technology," Ronon says, as if expecting outright denial.

"Do you plan on using it to attack us, your own people, or anyone that doesn't deserve it?'

"No." Ronon states it plainly enough, but John gets the impression that he's struck a nerve, and hurries to explain.

"I didn't think so, but we've got to cover our bases. You know how it is."

The edge of offence leaves Ronon's expression. "We are gathering the required equipment as we speak, and will have everything waiting at the gate by midday. I assume you will be able to have your scientists and their security staff ready by then?"

"Yes," John's a little relieved that he doesn't have to bring it up himself.

"There will be a few members of the Council coming to meet your people. It's just a formality, but they _are_ very curious."

"Fair enough." John senses an in, here. "What are they like?"

"Infuriating, most of the time. Already irritated with me, if you must know, as they feel this falls under their purview as a diplomatic matter."

"You poached us?"

Ronon grins, wide, and his entire face changes, goes _young_ again, with his eyes lighting up mischievously. "After a fashion, I suppose, though it wasn't my intent. My taskmasters are resourceful."

"Gotta admit, as far as diplomacy goes, this one's been easier than most."

"Well, I'm sure the council will find a way to complicate matters," Ronon says, in a tone that reminds John of Jack O'Neill. "They usually do."

\---

"About these ruins," McKay asks Ronon, once they arrive again on Sateda. "I, er. It would help to know what work has been done with it so far. So I don't go reinventing the wheel."

"Where do wheels come in?" Ronon frowns, but already, there were women stepping forward, presumably from the council.

"Greetings," the oldest one says. "I am Ty. I take it your are the ones who negotiated with our _commander_ for access to our Ancestral technology?"

Something crosses Ronon's face at this, like there's some meaning in her words meant just for him, but McKay turns to address the woman first. "Well, yes, _since_ -" he breaks off at John's glare. "As I was just asking the Commander, here. If you could tell us what work you've already done, it would save us a lot of time."

Councilor Ty's grin is thin as she beckons them along the avenue, but it's another, a redheaded woman who introduces herself as Yora, who answers. "To date, all research in this direction has been little better than a distraction, for all the results we've achieved. None of it shows the slightest signs of working, and though the materials are not showing any obvious signs of decay or degradation, we believe them to be hundreds of years old, at least."

Ty cuts in to finish. "As you can understand, our expectations are _quite_ low." The way she says it makes it clear that she thinks they're wasting their time, and probably here casing the joint, looking to steal the silverware.

He catches Ronon and Yora exchanging looks, but neither speaks. It's the same kind of look Teyla shoots him whenever McKay's showboating. John pretends he doesn't see it.

\---

Eventually, their procession winds to the edge of the city, and there, in the stand of trees at the edge of the valley, built into the side of a high bluff, are the ruins. _Ruin_ , to be precise. A lone tower that doesn't reach nearly the height of Atlantis, but it's so obviously of similar design that it's stunning to behold.

It isn't another sister city, then, buried there in the dirt. Just a tower. He tries not to be disappointed.

A scientist is coming through the door at the base of the tower to wave them in. Yora, McKay and Teyla get there first, followed by the rest of the group. John's the last inside, and he's just catching the gist of her spiel when the lights come on.

It takes a few seconds to realize that everyone's gone silent.

Ronon and his guards have their hands on their guns, and the councilors are scowling at each other in bewilderment. McKay continues onward, however, oblivious and wanting to know if there is a full schematic somewhere, any sort of inventory.

When he catches on that only Teyla was following him, he spins on his heel and regards them all with an impatient glare that _almost_ meets his standards. "You people coming, or are you that bored already?"

"What's going on?" Ronon growls into John's ear, and John doesn't have the first idea where to begin.

"That's it," McKay snapped his fingers. "It's the gene, of course, you just need someone to initialize the systems."

"What's that?" Councilor Ty asked, her eyes again never leaving Ronon, for some reason.

"There's a genetic component to being able to use this technology. Some people have it, some don't."

"What do you mean, genetic?"

McKay rolled his eyes. "What do you _mean_ , what do I- _Biological_.

"I'm assuming your people have the ability?"

"I do, as does Major Sheppard, much as-"

"But _we_ do not," Ty answers harshly before addressing the other women. "So what we've done here, today, is present strangers with technology that gives them an advantage over us."

"It's fine," Ronon steps forward, his voice sharp and certain.

"Look," John explains. "We've established workarounds for those of our us who don't have the gene. We'll build that in too, where we can. Won't work for everything, but it's a hell of a lot better than nothing."

"And if everyone would just stop _talking_ ," McKay grumbles, "we could get on that, couldn't we?"

There's an answering pause, but it's just the councilwomen nodding to each other and turning their attention back to the display on the far wall, and John realizes something about the Satedans that he probably should have figured out the moment he came through the gate. It wasn't that they didn't take offence. They just weren't the type to get offended by McKay.

\---

"Our database was right, this _is_ a defense post," McKay starts, once he's had time to poke around, "but it was never completed. I'm already seeing deep space sensors, but they need a _lot_ of work, and I'm talking _weeks_ , here."

" _Rodney_ ," John starts, only to be interrupted by Ronon's laugh.

"Fair enough," Ronon agrees, and McKay's grin is one of startled vindication.

"Anyway. There's also a shield. I don't think it will get much past the city walls, but once we get the long range scanners up…" McKay wanders into the next room, already lost in thought, so John finishes for him.

"You're going to be able to get all your people to safety in time," he tells Ty, hoping to mend fences, or something.

"How is all this getting power?" Ronon asks.

"That's the funny thing," McKay answers, backing out of the room with an amazed expression on his face. "It just takes three ZedPMs, it's like, a battery."

"McKay? What is it?"

"There's," he gestures back over his shoulder, shaking his head, his grin wide. "The database was right. They've got a stockpile of them. Crates of ZedPM's, just. Sitting there. Enough to-"

 _Enough to power Atlantis for thousands of years, enough to protect Earth_.

Thankfully, McKay remembers his orders, and Teyla is talking with the councilwomen in quiet tones, distracting them. If she's bringing up their ZPM needs yet, he can't tell, but it's enough to make him nervous. It doesn't get any better when the women follow her outside, where he can't hear anything at all.

\---

The real work begins the next day, but while Rodney's scientists begin cobbling together the parts needed to route the power to the defense systems.

John's there in case anything needs to be turned on, but they're not there, yet, so he wanders the corridors, and joins the security patrols. They're all staring at the sky more often than not, and it's clear that John's not the only one made a little less comfortable by the constant presence of scanners.

He's outside, scratching at his collar, watching the farmers in the fields and the sky he can't fly in, when he realizes it's not just the sunlight that he's feeling, but eyes on the back of his head. In the instant before he turns, he wonders if it might be Ronon, but it's only Tyre, coming up the path, raising a hand in greeting.

"I've a message for you from the commander," he says. "He'd like you to come to his office to discuss how the project is progressing. He also wanted me to invite you and your soldiers to join us for our training exercises afterwards, if you see fit."

"Is it an order?"

"No, merely an offer, in case you were looking to burn off some energy and find a morning's distraction."

McKay and the others are coming out of the outpost, either already arguing or still arguing. It's time to head back, and the thought of doing this all over again tomorrow is suddenly underwhelming as all hell. "Would tomorrow work?"

\----

After they meet at his office the next day, Ronon leads the way back down the hall, passing a councilwoman with long blonde hair going gray. John recognizes the woman's robes, but can't remember her name, and she seems to be ignoring him, anyhow. She greets Ronon as she passes, however, and though he doesn't break stride, he stiffens, barely, and John replays what the Councilor said.

 _Chieftain?_

"So what's the deal?" John ventures, once they've turned the corner. "Thought you were a commander."

For a moment, he gets no response. "Chieftain was the old term. Fell out of favor during the last war."

"Against the wraith?"

"Against ourselves. Because the chieftain betrayed us."

"So she's a traditionalist, then? That councilor woman?"

"She was on the side of the opposition. There are some times, more than others, that we remember that." Ronon explains, turning them towards the stairs. Glancing up at John's face, he finds something there to read. "You seem surprised."

"Well, I. From the looks of things, I guess I wouldn't have expected you to leave survivors."

"Why?" Ronon slants his eyes, just a little cross. "Do you not on your world?"

"No, it's nothing like that," John doesn't know how to pull his foot out of his mouth, so he falls silent, which seems to be the best response.

"Wars end, but people remember why they fight," Ronon , but there's something in his voice that John can't quite read. "Councilor Teresta merely likes to remind me of the fact, once in a while. Nothing more."

John wants to ask, _are you sure_ , because while Ronon doesn't carry himself like someone who is overmuch concerned where the next attack is coming from, it might be because he's always flanked by his two silent guards, one male, one female and both well-armed.

\---

John is not the most skilled fighter Ronon's ever seen, but he's persistent. It's clear that while he has trained in hand-to-hand combat, he obviously hasn't made much use of it. It's interesting, though, in a way training with his men isn't. Different. Ronon has to learn what to expect.

He's fighting strategically at the outset, each block and kick setting up another move three down the line. A few rounds in, however, the instinct supercedes the thought, and his eyes go wild. Becomes a little less mindful of the hits he should be avoiding, leaves himself open when he shouldn't. He attacks more than he blocks, even after Ronon bloodies his nose. He does all these things, but he doesn't take advantage of Ronon's bad leg, which either means that he's honorable or pathetically naïve.

He fights like a man who's lost before, until he's fought it out of his system, and eventually, as Ronon helps him to stand, he seems a little more at peace.

The expression fades when he puts his radio back on, his words single syllables, and there's only one thing this could mean. "I'm heading out to the labs, if you want to come see for yourself."

"So what do you think of our soldiers?" Ronon asks as they head out.

"I think that you're all crazy, and if it came down to it, you could probably take over my home world, if it were just down to physical ability."

"Only then?"

"Like I said. We've got our advantages as well." John doesn't seem to be boasting, he's too intent on the game below to probably be really thinking about strategy. Ronon's starting to get used to it.

\---

"McKay says that there's a relay station that isn't where it's supposed to bee," John explains, a few days later, as they make their way to the outpost. Ronon doesn't know it yet, but if it's been destroyed or torn down, McKay and Zelenka won't be able to build a new one, not with the tools at hand.

Ronon's face drops, then, and it's probably a good thing that his guards are standing behind him, can't see the realization strike.

Inside, McKay and Zelenka are poring over a map they'd copied at the library, heads down as they compare it to the image glowing on one of the screens.

"We'll have to tell the council," Astol, the Satedan scientist says. "They need to know."

Ronon beckons her over into the corner, and the discussion that follows look intense. A few minutes later, and Ronon stalks out the door.

When John catches up to him outside, he's aware, again, of the proximity of the guards, but he asks anyway. "What was that?"

Ronon glances over at him and shakes his head, looking again to the trail. "Not here." John's not sure if it's an invitation, but when John radios back to Bates to tell him where he's going, Ronon doesn't seem to disapprove.

It doesn't mean he's happy, though. Not by any stretch of the imagination. They're heading back towards the academy again, but instead of taking the door that would lead to his office, they continue onward towards the northern side of the building. The guards go in ahead, but after a few moments, they come back down and withdraw to a side room.

John follows Ronon up the stairs. He's already determined that this is probably his private residence, his home, but it's not until they reach the second floor that it becomes obvious.

There's a sitting area with low, backless couches, and a desk in the corner, cluttered with papers and pens and folders, and a rack of knives and guns hangs near the stairway.

There's even a kitchen, though, and John freezes, staring at it. It's like staring at a Norman Rockwell scene, if all the dimensions were off, curved lines where they should have been straight.

"It's a kitchen," Ronon explains, misreading his surprise as he opens a cupboard, retrieving two ceramic cups. "For preparing food."

"Yeah, I. Just haven't seen one in a while," John admits, feeling foolish, and watches as Ronon goes to the freezer he'd thought was an oven for ice, before pulling a bottle off the rack by the sink and pouring two drinks. "What is it?" John asks, accepting the cup.

"It's called ghel. Made from grass and sugar and who knows what else," Ronon drinks first, clearly wanting to prove that it's safe. It tastes a little like tea, a little like wine, and it burns mildly when it goes down.

"Not bad," John says, following him out to the sofas, sitting across from him. "So." He's not quite sure how to proceed.

"The council's not going to take well to having your people going where they need to go. It's the middle of our burial grounds."

"Yeah?"

"Astol told me where she thinks it is, and if she's right, it was buried during the war, when we pulled the walls of the city in to better protect ourselves. During the war, many of the dead were buried there, as we had no safe access to our cemetery, which is far out, past the fields. Since then it has become something of a monument."

"Holy ground?"

"No," Ronon intones, as if explaining to a child. "It could never be. Those that are buried there died fighting ourselves. They killed and were killed by Satedans. _Nothing_ about that is holy. As soon as the war ended, the council had it cordoned off as a reminder."

"Well." John sips his drink, wishing that Weir or Teyla were here. This isn't his scene. "Couldn't they make an exception? It's for a good cause."

"I'm going to, first thing in the morning," Ronon surprises him, and reaches down to undo the buckles on his boots.

"Okay, but. Why wait?"

Ronon eases back against the high side of the couch, stretching out his leg deliberately. "Because I need to think this through, and because nobody is in the hall at this time of day. This project is something that some of us have wanted for a very long time, but we have been outnumbered by those who don't want to waste resources on something that might not work. It will require a certain amount of tact."

"Sounds fun, I'm almost jealous. Or. You know. Not." John says, and Ronon actually laughs, then.

"Yes, well. Let's just say this is not the path I would have predicted for myself."

"Dealing with politics?"

"Dealing with any of it. I planned to do my duty until my enlistment was up, then move on. But then the war came, I have a twinge in my leg, and more responsibilities than any painter should have. Unfortunately, I have the sense to take them seriously."

"That's…good. Wait. Painter?"

"Had I been able to continue my studies once my service came to an end, that is what I'd be doing. Probably not even knowing how trite it is."

"So you're not missing it, then."

"Sometimes. When I have to prepare to address the council, usually. But I wouldn't trade this for a thousand worlds. What about you? Did you see yourself leading your people?"

"Never had any other plans, really, but never thought I'd make it this far. Literally. One month ago, I didn't even know your planet existed. One year ago, I didn't even know there were people on _any_ other planets."

Ronon scowls at him in disbelief. "How did you not-"

"The gate on our world is kept secret. If it wasn't for genetics and, well, _life_ , I'd probably still be flying milk runs on Earth, and-"

"And fighting the wraith," Ronon finishes, but John shakes his head.

"We don't have them, where I'm from." Like always, he feels a little guilty admitting it, like he's rubbing it in Ronon's stunned face.

"Why not?"

"They don't know how to get there."

"How large is your planet?"

"Huge. Small. I don't know. But we've got six or seven billion people, give or take."

Ronon cocks his head, not entirely believing. "Is that why you came this far? Looking to settle?"

"No. Pretty much to see what's out here. To learn, and. You know. For fun."

Ronon laughs. "You came to fight the wraith for _fun_?"

"We didn't know about them when we got-"

"Save it, John. Your reputation will carry you much farther, around here, if you're known as the madman who traveled _in search_ of the wraith."

"I'm pretty sure my reputation's already shot to hell with your men. They've already seen me fight, so…"

Ronon smirks, but cedes the point without comment. And maybe it's the alcohol, or the fact that Ronon's lost the frustrated edge he'd been carrying around with him, or hell, maybe it's just the light, coming low through the window miles away from any crisis he has to deal with _right now_ , but Ronon is completely gorgeous, sprawled lazily over the opposite couch.

 _It's not the booze_ , his brain supplies, unhelpfully honest.

"So you know about us. Tell me about Earth," Ronon asks, once he's returned with another round of drinks, so John does. Tells him about the politics, scattered bits of geography that will never do Ronon any good. About surfing and the coast of California. About football and television and all the things he thought he'd miss more.

He's in the middle of describing a bar he'd been to in San Francisco when his brain catches up to him. It's a few drinks later, and he's almost certain he just said what he thinks he said, and though Ronon's watching him through slightly drunken eyes, and the word _gay bar_ probably means nothing to him, John can't be sure unless he asks him outright

It's best to move on, rush ahead, skim over it and hope that Ronon doesn't catch on, but his brain is trapped in a rut, now, and he's trying too hard to see a clear path to safer ground.

It's Bates, on the radio, who saves him from himself. They're packing up and heading home, since it's starting to get dark. John hadn't even noticed, but he'll meet them at the gate in twenty.

\---

Teyla's in the gym when he arrives, but he's already had his ass handed to him once today, so he declines her offer to work on bantos training.

"Did you enjoy your day's journey to Sateda?"

"Sure," John stumbles a little as he steps towards the window, watching her stretch. "Just figured I'd hang out here until I sobered up. Ronon's a good guy, you know, but there's a chance that he's a bad influence."

"I see," Teyla says, and it's a few seconds before he realizes she could have meant it literally as well as figuratively. But she keeps the conversation going, however, asking after the scientists' progress, and telling him about her third meeting with the council. And she asks him about sparring with the soldiers, and the security detail, so he tells her.

More than once, he catches himself mentioning something Ronon had said or showed him, or just something he'd noticed _about_ Ronon, the way his eyes lit up when he was joking, or how he carried himself differently when he took his shoes off.

Teyla catches on anyway.

\---

  
Ronon suspects that Teyla may have had more to do with convincing them than anything, but once the council announces their vote in favor of surveying the burial grounds, Ronon sees little of John over the next few days, outside of their daily sparring sessions. Though he's not superstitious, he doesn't need to raise any more eyebrows by sauntering into the burial grounds himself. And waiting at the gate to the cemetery would probably be just as problematic, for an entirely different set of reasons.

In the meanwhile, Ronon's got meetings with the master of arms, sits in on a negotiation regarding use of the off-world cantonment grounds. Troops to inspect and three demerit cases he has to deal with. A military to run. The usual amount of work. It's not surprising that it's the mornings he looks forward to the most, even if their sessions leave his leg aching so deeply that the urge to limp back to his office is hard to resist.

One morning, though, John glances down and announces that he doesn't really feel like sparring, and for an instant, it looks like charity. It takes Ronon a moment to realize, though, that his motives might be more based on the bruising on John's face.

"You want to go see the north side of the city?"

"Sure," John replies, and follows Ronon out of the yard. They pass Tyre, coming in, whose eyes slide off them blandly enough that he's not reading anything into it.

"They found the grounding station, it was built into the wall on the far edge of the cemetery," John explains as they cross the street towards the viaduct. "They're having to go in through the entire conduit and clean the grit out, cell by cell, or the crystals won't fit right, but they should have it in another day or so."

"That's good."

Around the corner, John can see that there are candles burning in a window facing the street. Ronon follows his stare, and explains.

"They are for the prayers to the ill, for the dying."

"Prayers?"

"It's superstition," Ronon shrugs. "But it makes some people feel better."

"I'm guessing you're not superstitious, then."

"I always carry a knife, wherever I go," Ronon shrugs. "It probably amounts to the same." Another few paces, and they're standing in front of a large stone building, with arrows and zigs and zags carved into the rock. Across the street is a latticework of ladders and platforms, covering the face of a large mural. Workmen crawl up and down, adding to the work in bright reds and oranges and gold, painting over the burn marks and filling in the holes.

"I'm giving my people the day off, tomorrow," John says, after a few minutes watching. " It's been a long week, and the Athosians had a really good hunt yesterday, so we're throwing a bit of a shindig, and I figured, if you've got the time, there are a few people who would really like to meet you. Oh. And will be a lot of wine, if you're interested."

"Tomorrow?" Ronon finds himself returning John's sudden grin. Makes himself look away, up at the mural on the side of the music hall that's nearly restored, and tries to think of something innocuous to say.

\---

  
Ronon can't help but think of the duties he's shirking as he heads towards the ring. There's a delegation of Genii coming through to negotiate with the Council regarding a munitions trade, but it's nothing that Tyre can't handle, and Cowan's a pompous fool, anyhow.

He steps through the ring to find a sea of horrified faces staring at him, but after a moment, he realizes that Ara and Rakai, have their guns drawn and ready, and it's probably not the best first impression they could be making.

He's standing in a room that looks like the ruins, only a bit larger, with more light. Windows that look out on water, mostly. It's clean and full of people who take it for granted.

John steps forward with Teyla and a brown-haired woman that Ronon's never met. "Elizabeth, meet Ronon Dex."

"It's good to meet you," Ronon says, tearing his eyes from John's clean-shaven face and fading bruises, because she may be missing the robes, but this woman is clearly a councilwoman, if not the leader.

"Welcome to Atlantis," Elizabeth says, and it really starts to sink in.

He's standing in _the_ city of the Ancestors. The city he hadn't been sure he'd believed in, a month ago. And it's amazing, true, but he'd thought it would be bigger, truth be told.

As John leads him along the hallway in something called a tensent tour, Ronon sees McKay arguing with a man he doesn't recognize at the foot of one of the stairwells. "Thought they were supposed to have the day off."

"They do," John says, his eyes following Ronon's, and he shrugs affably. "This is what they do for fun," he explains, and leads them into a conference room. The walls close behind him, and Ronon glances at Ara and Rakai. It's made them nervous, too.

John's waving them all into chairs, the guards too, which is strange, and leans back in his own as Elizabeth clears her throat and Teyla folds her hands on the table top.

"Before we move on to the more entertaining portion of the evening, I'd like to have a few minutes to talk over how the project is going…"

\---

The meeting is apparently finished, and they've all eaten and had several glasses of wine, but Elizabeth asks another question about the ruins. It's McKay and the other scientist- the one with the glasses and strange voice- who take over, which is just as well. Ronon hasn't seen it in a week, and apart from John's and Astol's brief reports, knows little of the progress that's been made. So he listens, and watches people milling about the dining hall, and silently pretends that he's more knowledgeable than he is, and that the wine isn't making the room as close as it seems.

Across the table, John's eyes are a little glazed, and they roll when Ronon meets them, joking. It happens, more than once, as the next bottle and then another is passed around the table.

It's strange, the way everyone acts so relaxed, casual. It isn't just John, but he's the leader. For all Ronon knows, they could be taking their cues from him. Or maybe it's the fact that they've got long-range sensors and a shield and windows that look out over water forever, and they're ready for anything.

Eventually, though, John sets his empty cup down and offers to show Ronon more of the city, but a soldier, Lorne, Ronon remembers, is crossing the room and catching his arm, muttering something into his ear.

"Back in a few," John says, clearly annoyed, and Ronon can feel disappointment begin to set in, too. "Only take a minute. If you want, I can meet you out there," he points to the balcony before following the soldier out of the room.

"Come," Teyla says, once John's gone. "I would like some air as well, I will show you"

Rakai and Ara look dismayed, but they rise as well, and Ronon notices their half-full cups and the hunting story that Halling, one of the Athosians, is in the middle of spinning. It's a little ridiculous, now, to drag them away from the closest thing to relaxation they've had in a week, so he dismisses them and follows Teyla out of the dining hall.

Outside, he realizes that his earlier perception of the city had been wrong, that it was far larger than he thought. He hadn't realized they were so high in the tower, really. But the wind is nice, and the door is closed behind them, and they're alone. It's as peaceful as anywhere he's ever been, this city is finally what he'd expected, open and large and protected and strong, but he doesn't tell her that.

The air is refreshing on his heated skin, and he tries to remember how many cups of wine he'd had. Teyla stands a short distance away, next to him, one hand on the railing and watching the waves crashing at the edges of the city, as calm as she always is, but more at ease, now, out here. He thinks about asking her what it's like, living with these people from so many galaxies away.

"You are interested in him," she says, apropos of nothing, and Ronon realizes that he's not anywhere _near_ being able to hear it. While he's planning his denials and trying to remember how to breathe, she continues with a sidelong glance. "I believe he shares your feelings."

He flexes his hands and says nothing. It seems to be the way of the Athosians, to speak in terms of feelings, senses, emotions. Intangible, like smoke, getting in everywhere but touching down on nothing. It's easier than discussing it in real terms, perhaps. Still, he says nothing.

She takes his silence as an assent. "If I might ask, on your world, what is the proper way to address it?"

Ronon considers going inside, waiting for John there, but it would be too telling, now, so he answers her. "We don't."

"There are several worlds where such an interest is frowned upon," Teyla targets the issue quickly.

Ronon nods. "Dereliction of duty," he explains, though she probably already knows as much.

"But you are a commander of your people, I would believe your achievements to be great."

"Commander, yes, but many would equally say traitor." Ronon has no need to explain himself to her. No reason to, beyond the strange mood he's found here. "The war that broke among my people had been coming for some time, but it was instigated by my actions. If I am not a traitor, is only because I led my side to victory."

He considers telling her about Kell, and the thousands of lives he would have deliberately sacrificed. About how by the end of the fighting, thousands had died anyway, leaving the survivors weakened against future attack. He's trusted her with enough already.

"I should go," he says. There's no telling when or if John's going to return, and it's getting late. His leg twinges again, but it passes after a moment, and he hasn't moved yet.

There's noise behind them, a door sliding open, followed by John's voice. "Hey, sorry 'bout that. Had to break up a fight. Some of the guys overdid the wine."

"You are just in time to see Ronon off," Teyla smiles as she turns, a strange smile on her face that John doesn't know how to handle, either. "As I shall do now, for it has gotten quite late." She steps first to John, placing her hands on his arms and they briefly touch foreheads, and then she approaches Ronon, so he does the same.

She leaves and it's just the two of them, then, John with his hand scratching at the back of his neck and shrugging, but he's not at ease, any more. "You leaving?"

"Unless the tour is still on offer," Ronon says, because the wind and the night, and the wine, and Teyla's words, too, are all making him bold. He lets John lead the way, away from the balcony, skirting along the edges of the dining hall and into the corridor. They pass some tired revelers, hears a woman talk about going to crash out. It probably means sleep.

"Yeah, so. I know it's a little isolated out here," John apologizes, once they're on a catwalk, looking back at the tower.

"It's impressive, even more than I imagined. I've never been anywhere like it. Always thought I would, but…" He doesn't know why he says it, but he's admitting more than usual, tonight.

They resume their journey across the bridge, and John says, after a few paces, "You've got a gate."

"But no time to use it." It sounds like a complaint, so Ronon changes the subject, something he's been meaning to ask. "Have you had any luck finding your Aiden Ford?"

"Nobody's giving up, but," John grimaces. "That's actually what the guys inside were fighting about." He looks tired, not physically, but mentally. Like he needs something, but if it hadn't been for Teyla, it's not likely Ronon would have known what.

"Right," he agrees belatedly, because he should probably say _something_ , and follows John around a corner to realize that they're at the very edge of the city, that there's nothing but water in front of them. They're at the end of the world, here, and they're alone.

"What-" John starts to ask, but he's moving forward, too, letting Ronon grab his arms and catch his mouth in a kiss. If Ronon were thinking about it, he'd be a little relieved that John knows what this is, what to do, but he won't, not until later.

He stops thinking. It's just the two of them, now mouths traveling against each other and edging back towards the shadow of another spire. It's John's hands pushing at his chest, sliding down to the hem of his shirt. It's Ronon pulling him closer, twisting him for a better angle, and it's the hard gritty expanse at his back, chilling him through his shirt and catching at his hair. It's John tight against him, and friction, and when John shifts one thigh against the outside of his own, it's a brief flare of pain that melts away too soon to notice.

"I gotta," John mutters, his hands fluttering at the front of Ronon's trousers, fingertips curving over the fabric as Ronon finds space of his own, stroking down to brush at the heated skin underneath John's belt. He's released, then, the cool air washing over him as John takes him in his fist, and he's damned if he's going to let Sheppard unravel him first.

Sometime, he'll find out if John can take it, the way Ronon thinks he can, or if he'll fight him, but they're only a few spans from the walkway, here, and soon, someone will come looking for them, but John's writhing against him, his stomach muscles jumping against the back of Ronon's hand as he strokes, falters, and tries to find a rhythm again, but it's getting harder, to concentrate, to think or even move, because all he wants to do is feel this. All of it.

John's falling first, and he bats Ronon's hand away, shoving at his hip with one hand as he sinks to his knees, and Ronon knows what's coming next, but the feeling- that mouth around him, wet and moving- startles him nonetheless. John keeps it up until Ronon tenses, and pulls off to breathe, to pull and stroke and drag Ronon towards the edge, only breaking stride when he stands to feed Ronon's own taste back to him, and when he comes it's with one hand scraping at the concrete and the other wrapped around John's neck and nothing but the stars looking down.

\---

They're silent as they head back towards the city, and John can feel the tension trying to claw at his gut, but it's not gaining a foothold.

It's hard to feel uncomfortable five minutes after stumbling back into life to find someone's heartbeat answering your own.

Ronon takes a breath, though, as the door to the city comes into view, and John's careful cool is nearly blown when he opens his mouth to speak. "I can't tell anyone about this. Here or back home."

"Same here," John says, and looks up at him, and there's something about it, that they've got a secret, now, that makes it all better.

Inside, goodbyes are said, and there's no more time to talk, and there's an audience here, anyway, but Ronon glances back at him with a private grin as he steps through. By the time the horizon's collapsed back into itself, and he's heading back towards his room, John flirts with having a minor freakout.

 _Probably wasn't the best idea to make out with him. Could complicate things. Yeah, and that's the understatement of the year. Anyone saw us, I'm dead_.

But honestly, it's late, he's had a really good night, he's already made it back to his room without anyone seeing him, and he's going to take the win.

\---

When he sees John walking through the square towards the academy buildings, Ronon's stomach tightens, for a moment.

Ronon hasn't been nervous in years, now.

By the time John's made it to his office, though, to drag him down to the yards to spar, the sensation is mostly gone. He hadn't been expecting that.

When John stops by his rooms at the end of the day, though, to deliver some reports from the scientists? Ronon's expecting him. Invites him inside and closes the door on the world, just for a little while.

\---

Days go by, and the progress is pretty amazing. McKay has the internal sensors up and running, which means that now they can actually _see_ what they're doing, now.

But that's not what John's thinking about right now, standing here in Ronon's office.

Right now, he's thinking about the two Satedan men being shoved through the gate at gunpoint. Only they're not Satedan any more. They're nobody. Exiles. And Ronon's pissed about it, he can tell, but he's not even looking. He's not _doing_ anything about it.

"You seeing this?" It's a stupid thing to ask. Ronon's office doesn't overlook the gate, though it does overlook the back half of the crowd of people who've gathered to watch.

"Yeah," Ronon says, and turns from the window, picks up a sheaf of papers and sorts through them distractedly. "It happens," he says, and while he doesn't seem happy or thrilled about it, he's not doing anything to stop it, either.

"So let me get this straight. Two guys get together, they get booted."

"Yeah." Ronon sets his papers aside and looks at him. "They failed to do their duty, to give more life than they've taken. The examination proved as much." He glances down at the newspaper on the edge of his desk, there's a picture of the two of them, surrounded by the script John will never know how to read.

Finally, Ronon meets his eyes. "Dereliction of duty. They have failed to provide any woman with a family. The accusation was brought by their wives, and the examination was this morning. They failed to prove that their presence here has purpose, and there was ample evidence that said they flaunted their transgressions, so..."

"So they're banished?"

"Yes."

 _How likely is this to happen to you?_ John wants to ask, but winds up saying, "well _that's_ lame."

"It's the way it is. They knew what they were risking," Ronon frowns. "And I've seen you with your people. I know your caution. You can't tell me that things are different on Atlantis."

"Yeah, but if I got caught, I wouldn't be sent away, I'd be sent home," John says, realizing the ridiculousness of his statement the moment it leaves his mouth. He considers Atlantis, for a moment, and he considers Earth, the sad prospect of being sent back, never to return.

It's really not all that different, but it _is_ and he still wants to argue, only McKay's voice, on the radio, doesn't give him the chance.

"Sheppard, you'd better get your ass down here. We found a chair."

\---

John hurries to the outpost to find Zelenka waiting for him by the door.

"As it was more or less buried by a pile of crates, we did not see it at first," he explains, leading the way down the back stairs.

"Yes," McKay says as they enter the room. "And if it wasn't for my insistence that we actually check out the basement, we wouldn't have found the drones, and wouldn't have looked for it."

John stares. It's not working, it's not even completed, but it exists. "How long to get it up and running?"

"A few hours, but it's going to take a lot longer to key it to work with non gene carriers.  
Once it's functional, though, it's going to make controlling the systems up a hell of a lot easier."

"The drones, too," John says, and Rodney rolls his eyes.

" _Obviously_."

\---

It's the next afternoon when everything starts going to hell.

"So the shield is ready to be turned on," Ronon pours McKay a drink from the decanter on the mantle. "That's great."

"Yes, city wide, and the gate, too. We've got everything. But there's a problem. Well." Rodney flounders for a moment, accepting the glass from Ronon. "Look. I have good news, and very bad news. The good. Long range sensors are up, and we've picked up the Daedalus about a day out."

" _No._ There's-" John laughs, because with all of this, he's forgotten about the seventy new expedition members about to arrive on Atlantis. He draws up short, though, sobering at McKay's expression. "What's the bad?"

"The sensors also picked up several wraith hive ships coming from a different direction. We can't tell that they're heading _here_ , specifically, but-" McKay breaks off at John's glare. "They'll be in the area in a little over a day, and as soon as we initialize the systems, they'll notice, and they'll _definitely_ attack."

"They're _wraith_ , of _course_ they will," Ronon says, "But we'll have the protection, right?"

"You're going to need the chair, too, or they'll never leave," John says, the good mood he'd nearly found entirely lost, now. "And I'm guessing we're not there, yet."

"Exactly," says McKay. "We still haven't found a way to interface the chair for people who don't have the gene."

"And of the hundred or so carriers that we've found, nobody's even at Beckett's level. Maybe with training, yeah, maybe, but in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, the wraith can keep us pinned down in the city. The fields will be cut off," Ronon says. "They'll starve us out."

"If you have control of the gate," Teyla tries, "you would be able to escape, return to the city later."

Ronon looks more frustrated than insulted, but it's a close thing. "This is our home. We're not going to run. My people-" he shakes his head and stalks to the window, staring at the street below. "If I give that order, we'll have war again."

"What about the Daedalus?" McKay asks, as they're leaving the outpost, and John shrugs, but he shakes his head, too.

"It's not likely they're going to want to engage two hives with so many on board. But they might. You hear from them yet?"

"They won't be in communications range from here or Atlantis, for another twelve hours."

"Well, run it by them. In the meantime, there's only one thing for it," John says, and this, at last, seems to get Ronon's attention back in the room. "I'll man the chair."

"That was never part of the deal," McKay squawks.

John's suddenly tired, and about to say something he'll probably regret, so he stalks out into the hallway instead. He's not surprised when McKay follows. Neither speaks until the guards are out of hearing range, and John stops short, spins on Rodney. "Right, so. We're leaving them with two shitty choices. Fight with, well, a few guns and some basic explosives, or raise the shields, evacuate the city, and hope for the best."

McKay's drained, there's no wind left in his sails now. He's quiet when he responds. "It's not your responsibility, John. You know that if the Daedalus runs into trouble, you're going to be needed there."

"Caldwell can handle it, and I'll do what I can. In the meantime, it would really help if you got everything ready to go at the outpost. "

"Yeah, well. Look. I'll get communications up and running. If I'm right, the Daedalus won't know about the wraith until they're already too close. I'll check back in on my way back, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

\---

It's a good idea. John knows it is. The only alternative is to leave the Satedans either defenseless or homeless.

 _No. Not defenseless_ , he decides, watching the soldiers training in the yard below. They're fierce, unrelenting. And they could fight a war against each other as easily as they could fight the wraith.

Ronon's going through the yard, talking to his taskmasters and surveying his troops, and his uneasiness is spreading through the men, John can see it from here.

Ronon's guarded about it, but Tyre's been a little more forthcoming, about their war. About Kell, his betrayal, and how it had torn Sateda apart. If the wraith hadn't been so close to decimating them, if they hadn't managed to unite against the real enemy, they would have warred themselves to death.

There's no guarantee that they can pull it off a second time.

Eventually, Ronon joins him on the hillside, sitting down on the grass, and his leg's got to be killing him, but he's not going to show it, not in view of his men. Neither says anything for a very long time.

"I can't ask," Ronon eventually says, keeping his eyes trained on two soldiers grappling at the edge of the yard.

"You don't have to."

\---

The council's repeating their warning on the alert system, and Ronon's already ordered soldiers to the farms to get everyone into the city. He's gone over the plan with his advisors and made his recommendations, given his orders. There's nothing to do now but wait.

It's well past the middle of the night, and though nobody's sleeping, the entire city has fallen silent, waiting, except for the constant stream of people exiting through the gate. Soldiers sending their children to family on other worlds, several of the elderly.

It's amazing, the difference a day's warning makes. It's almost peaceful.

But there are shouts rising from the window outside, and downstairs, Rakai and Ara are moving towards the door. The lights are off in his rooms, though, so he steps towards the window himself.

There are maybe two dozen people, and they're yelling for his head, arguing with the guards.

They don't trust the shield. They think it's a lie, that Ronon's been taken in by charlatans. It's the same thing they were yelling a few hours ago, only it's louder, now. The wraith could arrive at any minute, and they know it.

The radio John gave him comes to life. "Ronon, this is Sheppard, come in."

"John?"

"Yes. I just came through the gate. How much time do we have?"

"About half an hour."

"Good. I'm heading for the outpost now." There's a pause, and then, "What's the deal with the entourage?"

"Caution, that's all. Not everyone is thrilled about this. Any word from your ship?"

"Yes," John bites, but he sounds angry, tired. "They're unable to offer support, they're on their way to Atlantis."

"There were civilians on board, weren't there?"

"I know, but." There's another pause. "I'll radio you again when I get there."

Ronon's already reaching for his boots. This isn't John's battle to fight. It's the least Ronon can do to bear witness. "I'll join you as soon as I can."

He's too late, though. By the time he arrives, John's already been shot.

\---

  
Rakai and Ara are already taking down the man with the gun, but apart from checking to see that he's unconscious, Ronon doesn't have time to deal with him now. It's nobody he recognizes and he just doesn't have the time, now.

"We need a medic!" Ronon yells again, pressing his hand against the wound on John's torso "And a stretcher!"

"My bag. There's. Bandages." John's teeth are clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and his blood is too life-warm under Ronon's fingers, and cooling quickly where it's already spilled.

Rakai rummages through the pack to find them, and helps Ronon get them into place. "Okay. We're going to get you to the doctor," Ronon says. "We're going to need to get you up the stairs first, though."

John shakes his head. "Get me to the chair. How much time to we have?"

"Enough time that we can get you to the hospital, stop the bleeding, and have you back here to fight when you're healed."

"And by then, the sky will be crawling with wraith. Help me up."

"John."

"I'm not arguing."

"No, you're just bleeding. A lot. It's bad, John."

"Then I should do what I can _while_ I can." He starts to clamber up anyway, so Ronon lifts him, ignoring the screaming in his leg, and carries him across to the chair.

As soon as John's seated, it lights up and reclines, and there's a picture- a ghost, floating above John's body and Ronon's heart stops, for a moment, before he realizes that it's probably just an image. A map, maybe, of the stars.

Ronon's never seen a soul, but John's, he thinks, would look like that.

But there's no time for this now. John's still alive, his eyes are pained slits but they're open, and already, the blood is soaking through the bandage.

"What?" John winces when he feels Ronon's hand pressing another bandage over the wound, holding it tightly in place.

"The doctor's on his way," Ara says, as she leans down to take one of the assassin's arms. If it weren't for the fact that Ronon is sure John will bleed out, he'd go over to kick the body.

"John. What do you need me to do," he asks instead, trying to focus.

"I can't concentrate," John says, just as the first strike is reported, crashing above the world.

\---

"John. Look at me. _John_." John doesn't, but Ronon knows he's got his attention. "You need to move the pain away," he explains, placing his wrist next to John's white-knuckled fist, unsure how to explain. "Don't let it drive you. Drive _it_."

John grabs a hold of his wrist, tight, shifting the bones, but he's forcing himself to calm, it seems. Takes one breath, and then another, slightly less shaky, and opens his eyes again, but he's not looking at Ronon.

The earth rumbles, once, and then there are whistling sounds coming from outside the room, probably outside the tower. The drones.

Ronon presses against John's blood, feels his hand go numb below the wrist, and watches John fight.

\---

He's not sure how long he's been standing like this when the doctor arrives to stand on John's other side, but apart from moving his bloodied hand, Ronon doesn't move.

He watches John's face as the doctor complains about the lack of anesthetic, and thinks that he should probably be dealing with the attacker himself, that he should be doing _something_ but a quick glance up tells him that Rakai and Ara are dragging him off in restraints.

John doesn't complain, doesn't even cry out when the bullet is removed. Winces, a bit, every so often, and that's all. He fights on.

His grip on Ronon's wrist changes, though, in the moment before the doctor starts to clean the wound, and Ronon's almost lightheaded from the rush of feeling flooding into his hand before John's fingers grasp his.

Ronon hazards a glance around the room. The eyes that aren't on the blood are on the ghosts of hive ships, floating above the chair. Right now, the way they're touching is the least of their concerns.

He squeezes back, just a little. John doesn't need any more distractions.

\---

There's a battle going on and Ronon's got the blood on his hands to prove it, but it's hard to believe, as quiet as the room is. He pulls his radio out of his pocket and raises it to his ear, which results in a loud squeal from the earpiece that John had given him. It's awkward, holding it to his opposite ear while trying to dial the control with his thumb, but eventually, he's able to hear reports coming in from the sentries.

Brilliant lights, fire burning across the sky, far above the city. Flashes of drones trailing up and out of view. The northern post reports other flashes in the sky, farther out, and his eyes swivel back to watch the image floating in front of him, sees one hive disappear and then another.

"He's taking down the targets," he explains, maybe to the room, maybe to himself. _It's actually working_.

The bottom of the image blurs, for a moment, as the doctor rises, but resets itself after a moment.

"This will hold for now," the doctor's saying. "But I need you to get him to the hospital as soon as you can. I'll be ready. He's going to need blood, though if he's going to have any chance at surviving.

"Okay."

"I don't suppose you know what kind he needs?" The doctor's voice is grim, and Ronon could feel his heart sinking. John's whole, but it might not be enough. And he's not responding to Ronon's questions. Might not even hear them.

Everyone watches as four more ships go down in quick succession, but there are still two left when the ghost image disappears and the chair goes dark.

" _John_!" Ronon leans forward to find him scowling, eyes screwed shut again, and rocking his head back and forth against the backrest.

"I can't. Just gimme a-" He drops Ronon's hand and grabs the arm of the chair, and he's trying again, but nothing happens until he loses consciousness.

It takes a moment for everyone else to catch on, and then everyone starts talking at once.

"Let's move him! _Now_ , the doctor's ordering, while behind him, scientists begin to argue. Astol and the other scientists are more interested in the chair, however, and Ronon is frozen.

They're going to have to evacuate. He's going to have to give the order, soon. Now, though, there are too many people in between John and the hospital.

"This is Commander Dex," he calls into his radio. "The chair's not working and we're coming out. I need a clear path to the hospital, and all squads to report."

"It's holding," someone says, he thinks it's Krey at the south post, but he can't be sure.

"The wraith are still firing on us," says another. "Awaiting your orders."

"The shield is still operating at one hundred percent," Astol says, her eyes on the monitor. "We should be able to hold out for a very long while, but the sensors are down."

Ronon takes a breath. "We need the streets cleared. Everyone is to return to their homes and gather what they need. I'm not giving the order yet, but people should prepare themselves in case evacuation is unavoidable. I want security squads quadrupled at the gate for when I order evacuation plan four. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander."

Ronon follows John's stretcher up the stairs and out onto the trail. The sky's still burning, and the world hasn't ended yet, but it might, soon. The brightness is confusing, all wrong in the night, and their path is lit by wraithfire.

Rakai catches up to inform him that John's attacker has already been moved to the jail, but hasn't given a name, yet. It's not what Ronon wants, not when John's blood is still sticky on his skin, but it will have to do, for now.

\---

 _This was foolish_ , Ronon admits to himself, because apart form the guards by the door, there's no one else to say it to. _A stupid thing to hang our survival on_.

He paces outside the operating room, radio in hand, earpiece still in place, though nobody is on the other end.

 _Because as soon as he wakes, I need to see that he gets back to the chair,_ he rehearses, though nobody asks him, the hospital staff are giving him a wide berth and it's all on lockdown in case of rioting. The wraith are here, and people have their duties to attend to.

Outside, the sky goes black. For a moment, he thinks it's because there's nothing left, on the other side of the window, but already there are reports coming in that the bombardment is stopping.

"What's going on?" Ronon asks, expecting only a sickly, final, world-shattering blast by way of an answer, but it's another strange voice addressing him.

"That would be us," a stranger's voice reports. "This is Commander Steven Caldwell from the Daedalus, and we've just taken out the two remaining hive ships."

"Thank you," Ronon has the sense to say. "Commander Ronon Dex. You're the Earth ship?"

"Yes. There was a _vote_ ," and Caldwell doesn't sound too happy about it. "So we turned back. Two hive ships were more than I wanted to take on, but we've gone through worse. Where's Major Sheppard?"

"He was shot. He's getting a transfusion right now." He checks the still-closed door to confirm, but it provides no useful answer. The guarded door, however, opens, and his mother steps through, her eyes wild but focused. Ronon hurries to explain to Caldwell that he'll inform him the moment he hears from the doctors, and hums vaguely to whatever the man says about keeping the channel open, because his mother is standing in front of him now, and she's seeing everything.

"They're really gone?'

"They are. Their ship came through," he says, and across the hall, the doctor is coming out, and there's not enough time to hide the look on his face. His mother sees all.

She's also the first to speak. "How is he?"

"He _should_ recover," the exhausted doctor says, looking up towards the ceiling. He wants to ask about the shield, but minds his place. "He's asleep now, if you would like to contact someone to conduct his vigil?"

"I will handle it myself." Ronon turns his radio on and turns command over to Tyre before turning back to the doctor expectantly.

He's led into John's room, and finds that the doctor has already pulled a chair to the foot of the bed. Ronon doesn't have to look behind him to know that he's been followed. He ignores his mother, however, in favor of going to the small cabinet by the door to pull out a candle.

"Would you like me to contact someone from his world to stay?" his mother asks, and it's his _mother_ , now, not the councilor's voice he hears.

"He's made this sacrifice for us," he fumbles with the matches and hopes she doesn't notice. Tries to light it again, but there's a tremor in his hands that wasn't there a moment ago.

"Yes. He has," his mother says, and takes the matches from him, touching the flame to the candle. "For all of us." She regards him closely as she passes him the candle, and it's clear that she knows everything, now, but whatever is on her mind will wait for another day.

Ronon places the candle into the stand at the window, careful not to dislodge the hardened wax of a hundred other vigils. By the time he turns to the back of the room, his mother has gone.

He closes his eyes for the space of three breaths before looking at John.

He's pale, breathing, and his wounds have been bandaged.

Ronon thinks his prayer again, stumbling even in his head, and wishes he knew how the vigil was done on John's world. What would work. If they did something different, used different kinds of words.

He prays again anyway, and moves to the foot of the bed.

\---

Ronon's eyes don't leave John's until they open.

\---

"Still here?" John croaks as he blinks back to wakefulness.

"Yeah. It worked, they're gone." Ronon whispers, because the sun's rising through the hospital window, and they're alive, and he's survived before, but nothing like this.

"Told you it would."

"You did."

And maybe it's the fact that there no more wraith in the sky, that they've not only survived, but they've _won_ , and maybe it's a little of whatever's been thrumming between them for the last month, but Ronon's reaching towards him the moment they're inside, and John's already there.

His mouth is hot and pliant under his own, and John's exhausted, and Ronon never needs to sleep again. He wants to kiss healing into his body, taste him back to life, press against him without wariness.

He wants to ask him what it's like to destroy an entire fleet without opening his eyes, wants to find out what it is that makes a man save a world he's only known for a month.

He wants to know what he's done to have John Sheppard wander into his life, into his world.

He's beautiful. Unflinchingly so, even with bandages around his body and shadows under his eyes.

"So who was that guy?"

"The man who used a _gun_ against you?"

"Yeah. Him." John wonders why it is that it's the _mode_ of attack that's problematic, and not, apparently, the fact that it happened in the first place.

"He's in prison. His fate has been holding, pending your survival. As you're alive, he probably won't be executed, though he fought dishonorably. You will have a say in his punishment, should you want it, or the council will decide. There were enough witnesses that the trial will be a mere formality."

"You know why he did it?"

"We think he was trying to undermine the plan. If it had failed, it could have upset the peace we've found. Started another war. But until he talks, we cannot be certain."

"Okay," John says, because he's too tired to deal with this, right now. "Just as long as it's politically motivated." He grimaces and regards Ronon with a wan grin. "You people are weird, you know."

Ronon frowns in mock offence and sits down on the bed next to him. "We're not all that different," he says, and explains every single thought John's come close to having over the past month. Just like that. The fact that he's sitting there, grasping his shoulder lightly, merely reiterates it.

\---

Outside, the sounds of celebration are growing louder, and he's pretty sure nobody's going to work today. Part of him wants to go out, see the faces, let it sink in. The wraith cannot defeat them, not any more.

Most of him, though, wants to follow John's exhausted doze into sleep.

There will be work to do, later, people who need to be talked to, but right now, they're all singing in the streets outside.

Ronon hasn't been one to sing aloud, not in years. But he hums along, quietly.

\---

  
 _Epilogue_

It's only been a day John's getting tired of staring at the walls of his room. It beats the infirmary, and while he hates to cast stones, he's been feeling better since getting out of the Satedan hospital, but. He wants to go back. At this point, he just wants to go anywhere, but if he had his pick...

There's a chime at his door, and he looks up to see Teyla standing in the hallway with a wide smile on her face, announcing that he has a visitor.

She doesn't stick around once she waves Ronon inside, and after another moment, the door is shut behind him, and he's looking around the room, taking everything in. He's dressed casually, and he's grinning like he knows exactly how much John had wanted to see him right then.

"Hey," John sets the sudoku book aside and sits up against the pillows.

"Hey," Ronon says, though he's momentarily distracted by the sight of John's surfboard, leaned against the wall. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Still sore, and tired of being cooped up, but good. How're you?"

"I'm good," Ronon says, finally stepping up to the bed. He regards John for a moment before leaning down, and John's got a handful of dreads before they're even close enough to kiss. "I'm really good," Ronon amends. "Just. Wanted to check up on you, so when I heard the council was sending the shipment through, I figured I'd do it myself."

"Cool. Wait. What shipment?"

"A couple of boxes of those ZPM things Teyla said you all could use."

"A couple _boxes_?

"Yeah, I think there are twelve units, all together. Anyhow. Seemed like a good excuse to come," he says, like the fact that he's just made John's home invincible wasn't even on his radar.

John reaches up and grabs some dreadlocks again, tries to crawl into Ronon's mouth until they're both laughing.

"Holy crap, I wish I could have been there to see McKay's face," he says, once his breath is back. Ronon sits back on the edge of his bed and runs a hand absently along John's side.

"You're healing, though?"

"Yeah. Should be set to head through the gate in another few days."

"Good. There's a…what was it? A shindig? Being planned in your honor, next week. All your people are invited, my mother is coordinating a large dinner at her house, so…" This is John's favorite Ronon, loose limbed and relaxed, without the soldier's regalia, without the guards hovering around him.

"Cool, I'm there." Ronon nods, and John realizes that there's something else. Probably a lot of things that they need to talk about, but all he can come up with is, "wait. Your mom's house?"

"Yeah."

"Do I have to wear a tie?" he asks, and Ronon's confused scowl is hilarious, but there are other expressions he could be wearing, just as easily. John makes room on the bed next to him, pulls him down, and sets to work on it.

 _The End_.


End file.
